


On The Run

by ilikemovies



Series: Most Wanted [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Betrayal, Emotional, Friendship, Gen, Harry Styles - Freeform, Harry-centric, Hitmen, Louis Tomlinson - Freeform, Louis-centric, On the Run, Pain, Possible Character Death, Robbery, Sad Ending, TRUST NO ONE, Torture, Whump, gunshot wound, im sorry harry, injured
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2018-04-15 13:44:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4608972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilikemovies/pseuds/ilikemovies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry and Louis are two criminals under the employ of one of the most feared men in the world of crime. After years of successfully evading police capture and carrying out dangerous missions with relative ease, their world is rocked when they are double-crossed. Harry is badly wounded, and Louis suddenly finds himself lost and alone.</p>
<p>They are forced to go on the run, and soon learn that they can trust no one. When they discover that they can't run forever, they're forced to fight. </p>
<p>With only each other to trust, and a limited supply, can they come out alive?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Epilogue

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys. So I suppose this is a One Direction fanfiction though only Harry and Louis are featured in this story. There is no Larry Stylinson simply because the direction my story needs to go leads to other things... I hope you guys enjoy, and I want to apologize in advance for putting all Harry lovers through such torment!

"Shit, shit, fucking shit!" Louis yells angrily as he slams the car door and angrily throws the bag of money onto the passenger seat in the car. He turns the key, revs the engine and speeds off, his heart racing as he hears the sound of sirens in the near distance. Sweat bathes his pale face as he checks the rear view mirror, half expecting police cars to turn the corner and pursue the black BMW he's driving. However, the street behind him remains empty and the further he drives the calmer he gets. 

He rips the ski mask off of his head and angrily tugs the leather gloves off of his hands. He's sweating so much that his clammy hands nearly slip off the wheel. He turns in the seat and glances at Harry in the back of the car. 

Harry is strewn out across the back seat, his long, toned legs tense and shaky, his muscular arms wrapped around his bleeding stomach. Blood seeps out of the bullet wound and onto the tan leather seats. He's pale and his eyes are screwed shut tightly as he writhes on the seat. His curly brown hair is stuck to his sweaty forehead and his mouth is twisted into a pained grimace, but he's silent, and that scares Louis more than he's willing to admit. 

"Hazza, you there, lad?" Louis all but screams as he takes a sharp turn onto the onramp leading onto the freeway. He peers out the windscreen as he hears the unmistakable sound of a helicopter roaring overhead: police and FBI. 

"I'm fine," Harry manages to groan through gritted teeth. His breathing is fast and erratic, betraying his tough facade. He moans and his back arches as he rolls onto his side. 

"How much blood you lost?" Louis asks. He speeds past all the other cars, frantically searching for the sign indicating the offramp which leads to the safe house only he and Harry know about. 

Harry, wheezing and gasping, replies, "Maybe, uh... Th-three pints."

Louis glances in the rear view mirror once again, sighing in relief when he finds that no police are following them. His heart is pounding against his chest hard and fast; blood is roaring in his ears; his vision is blurred by sweat. "Where's the wound, Hazza?" He asks, trying not to convey his anxiety and worry in his slightly unsteady voice. 

Harry once again takes a second to suck in as much breath as he can before he replies, "Um, one or two inches b-below my, uh, ribcage and..." His voice slowly fades as he turns on his side and vomits until there's nothing left for his stomach to expel and he's left only dry heaving. The horrid smell of vomit fills the car. 

"Is it centre or flank?" Louis asks, panicking. This is the umpteenth time Harry's been lying on the back seat, fighting to stay conscious as his life seeps out of him and Louis can do nothing but drive - helpless, useless - though, usually he has a doctor or private hospital to drive Harry to; this time, he has none of that. 

"In between." Harry slurs. 

"Stay awake!" Louis yells, slamming his hand down onto the hooter. He hears Harry jolt in the back, and he glances back at him. Blood is covering almost every part of the back seat. Harry is going into shock, and staying conscious is an uphill battle. "Broken ribs?" 

"Y-yeah," Harry gasps, his right hand wrapping around the car door handle as he struggles to push himself into a sitting position. He groans and his face pales further as he frantically searches the front of the car. "You got the money?" He says, smiling. 

"Fuck yeah," Louis says proudly. The offramp is only yards away and Louis turns sharply, speeding past cars and onto the empty offramp. Harry flies into the car door at the sudden movement and he screams as it jolts his fresh injuries. Louis looks back at him apologetically and gasps, "Sorry, sorry." 

The road turns into a gravel road a mile on and the rough journey results in Harry holding onto the car door handle to steady himself with one hand whilst his other hand clutches his wound tightly as he gasps and grits his teeth in agony. Louis wishes he could make the trip smoother but he's powerless until they arrive at the safe house. 

"Who told them we were coming?" Harry grits out, his hazy green eyes watching Louis intensely. 

Louis shakes his head and frowns, locking his gaze with Harry's for only a moment before turning his attention to the road. "Maybe Donovan told 'em..." Louis shrugs, though the words are unbelievable even as they tumble from his thin lips. 

"No," Harry replies, shaking his head. His neck arches and he throws his head back as the car jumps violently over a particularly large bump in the uneven road. "He wouldn't."

"How do we know that?" Louis asks, taking another sharp turn into a small dirt road that runs between thick fields of uncultivated crops. Sand and mud smashes into the windscreen, obscuring Louis' vision, though he knows the road so well that he simply keeps driving, undeterred. 

"R-ratting us out means fucking up his entire organization, Lou." He squeezes his eyes shut again and forces himself to stay awake despite the darkness beckoning him. 

"Yeah, yeah," Louis responds. His shoulders sag in relief as he spots the trusty safe house on the horizon. Old and dilapidated as it may be, it's been a safe haven for Louis and Harry more times than they can remember. 

The next few minutes of the car ride are filled with silence as the safe house gets closer. Once they reach it, Louis jumps out and rips open the wooden doors of the barn before hurriedly parking inside. He pulls the keys out of the ignition and fumbles for the handle of the back seat car door. His hands are still too sweaty to maintain any semblance of grip on anything. 

The car door opens as Harry weakly stumbles out of the car. He's hunched over and his blood drops to the floor, creating a pathway behind him. He collapses to his knees and starts dry heaving again, his body trembling with the force. Louis reaches inside the car and pulls out the bag of money before slamming the door shut and dropping to his knees beside Harry. Harry struggles to his feet, his curly hair hanging in his face, his sneakers slipping in the hay covering the floor. Louis loops an arm around his waist and hoists him to his feet. Though Harry's trying to stand upright, Louis is forced to carry most of his weight as they limp out of the barn and into the bright sunlight outside. 

"Just wait here; I gotta close the door." Louis says, letting Harry lean against the trunk of a large, full tree. He shoves the heavy doors closed, his own shoes struggling to gain traction on the moist green grass below foot. 

Once inside Louis leads Harry to the dining room and lays him out on the large metal table that had been used as an operating table so many times before. "Take off your shirt." Louis orders calmly as he kneels down beside the cabinet and pulls out the first aid kit. He drops the kit on top of the table and opens the curtains so the sunlight shines through the window and illuminates Harry. 

Harry struggles to pull off the shirt he's wearing, gasping as the black material gets caught in the dry blood caking the area around the wound. He's getting even paler and shakier with each passing second and his eyes struggle to focus on Louis as he leans over Harry. 

Louis remains calm as he spots the gunshot wound in Harry's abdomen, but his heart skips a beat and his breath catches in his throat. The wound is large and inflamed, still bleeding freely. It's just over an inch below Harry's ribs. Bruising spreads from around the wound all the way up to his chest - where it becomes black and swollen - and all the way across his stomach towards his belly button until it slowly fades to a dull red. The wound is deep, but there's no exit wound, which means Louis is going to have to dig in to get it out. 

Louis flips the box open and pulls out the disinfectant. He places a hand on Harry's toned stomach to steady him and says, "This is gonna hurt."

"I know," Harry wheezes, attempting to smile, but it comes out as more of a grimace. 

"Been there, done that," Louis teases. 

Harry chokes out a laugh and adds, "Got the... The fucking t-shirt."

Louis pulls on a pair of latex gloves, pours the disinfectant onto gauze pads, and once again steadies Harry as he wipes the area around the wound as gently as he can. Harry's back arches slightly, but he remains still barring a slight tremor in his muscles. Louis uses a new gauze pad and disinfectant to clean the scalpel, forceps and the stitching needle. 

"Hazza, there might be internal damage that I can't do shit about." Louis warns sadly. 

"Ain't nothing we can do 'bout that," Harry responds weakly. 

Louis nods slowly, taking a steadying breath before whispering, "I know." He's scared; he's scared because he isn't ready to lose his best friend, the person he grew up with when they had nothing, the person he considers his family - all he has left. The coppery smell of blood fills his nostrils though he hardly takes notice. 

"Go." Harry gasps, grabbing Louis around the wrist and nodding encouragingly. 

Louis takes a shaky breath and uses the scalpel to open the wound slightly before plunging the forceps inside and digging around for the bullet. Harry's back arches and he tenses and shakes and tears stream down his pale face into his sweaty hair. He screams so loudly that Louis cringes and has to force his shaky legs to hold his weight for just a while longer. 

The forceps clink against the metal and he pulls it out carefully, a fresh stream of blood flowing out of the wound as Harry finally succumbs to unconsciousness. "Thank fucking god." Louis sighs in utter relief. He can feel the forceps squish and prod the muscle and blood as he pulls the bullet out. Shakily, he drops the bullet on top of the gauze and takes another shaky breath. 

He uses the disinfectant to once again wipe the wound clean before carefully threading stitches through the wound, using a towel to soak up all of the blood. He places a gauze pad over the neatly stitched wound and secures it with medical tape. He considers wrapping the wound with bandaging, but decided against it as the binding could prove harmful considering Harry's broken ribs. He gently glides his fingers over Harry's chest, biting his bottom lip nervously as he feels a slight shift beneath the skin as he touches the tenth, ninth and eighth ribs. "Three broken ribs." He mutters to himself. 

He packs up the first aid kit and cleans up the bloodied gauze pads and towels. He fetches a pillow from the lounge and places it under Harry's head. He smirks as he remembers the moment only two weeks ago when Harry tried to change the cushions but gave up and ended up throwing the covers onto the floor in a huff and storming out. He rushes to the nearest bedroom and tips a blanket off of the bed to drape over Harry, who's sweaty and hot despite the shivers racking his long body. He leans down and pulls an IV bag out of the cupboard where the first aid kit is kept. He gently cleans Harry's bloodied hand and feels for a vein. Once he's found one he gently inserts the needle, attaches the IV bag and hangs it on the handle of the cupboard. 

Louis closes the curtains slightly so the sunlight isn't shining on Harry's face before tiredly collapsing into the nearest seat: the beige linen couch in the lounge next door. He glances at the bag of money he threw down in the rush to help Harry, and suddenly jumps up - he needs to clean the car and change the license plate. 

Despite the aches in his tired body and the unbearable pounding in his head, Louis, hands still in latex gloves, grabs a mop, disinfectant, a bucket and a cloth. He runs outside and towards the barn, filling the bucket up with water from the rusty tap outside. The setting sun shines in his eyes, but he hardly notices. 

His phone rings and he drops everything as he rips it out of his back pocket. He swears angrily, staring at the screen in a mixture of disbelief and rage: it's Donovan, the one person he was told never to ignore, the one person who could kill him with nothing but a snap of the fingers if Louis disobeyed him. He stares at the name of the screen nervously. 

Donovan. 

He sighs and, with trembling fingers, presses the red phone. 

Trust no one.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's alive... For now. But Louis is alone and it seems as though the world around him is in ruins. He has a limited time to figure out a plan, but there's one questions plaguing him: who ratted on them?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys, still moving a little slow. Got to set the scene, though. Promise things will start moving but hopefully you guys enjoy this chaoter despite the lack of action. Plenty of hurt Harry, though, and a little angsty Louis, too!
> 
> For some reason, the italic printing isn't showing up on here, so everything that was in italics, no longer is. So, I just want to say that everything in past tense with an asterisk(*) is a flashback. Sorry, everyone.

Louis stares at Harry, his trembling hands hanging at his sides. Harry's face is bathed in sweat and his curly, brown hair is matted with blood and stuck to his forehead. Though he's in the depths of unconsciousness, his face is twisted in a permanent grimace. 

Louis gulps and backs away until his back hits the beige wall. A million thoughts and questions are plaguing him, and as he stares at Harry, his attention wanders. 

How did they know he and Harry were coming? 

He's snapped out of his stupor by a low groan from the table. Louis steps forward, worried that Harry might wake, but Harry quickly goes limp and silent once again. 

Harry's blood stains the piles of gauze and towels that are strewn about the wooden flooring surrounding the metal table. Louis glances down at his feet, lifting his hands and staring at his palms. His little hands are covered in dried blood, and his clothes are stiff with it. 

He suddenly feels claustrophobic and he rips his black jersey off and tosses it aside. His breath is even and measured despite his racing heart. 

His gaze darts between the soiled gauze pads and Harry's bloodied, ripped clothing discarded in the corner of the room. He knows what he has to do next, but he's struggling to get himself to move; he needs to burn the clothes and gauze pads to destroy all evidence. Despite the fact that only he and Harry know about the safe house, they can't afford for any evidence against them to be found in the case that the police find them. Which is why they have to get moving the second Harry wakes up. It will be uncomfortable and perhaps dangerous, but they've been through worse and come out the other side. 

Louis looks back down at his own bloodied clothing and promptly decides it would be best for him to shower first, then dispose of the evidence. He forces himself to stop trembling as he pivots on his heels and heads down the dark passage. The passage is narrow and long, with beige walls and hard-wood flooring. There are doors that lead into small bedrooms and bathrooms on either side of the passage; the windows are all closed, though, so only darkness oozes from them and bathes the passage in blackness. 

Louis flips the light switch and blinks dazedly as the sudden brightness disorientates him. Squinting, he stumbles down the passage to the last door on the left and shoves his way in. It's a large bathroom with a shower and ceramic bathtub. It's a little dusty - like everything else in the house - from months of undisturbed disuse, but it'll do the trick. 

He tugs open the blinds, sighing as the setting sun shines through the slats and showers him in warmth. 

He strips quickly and turns on the tap in the shower - turning the hot tap on all the way. With a loud clunk and bang, water spurts from the old shower head. Louis steps inside the shower, glancing over his shoulder at the towel rack where an old towel still hangs, and closes the glass shower door behind him. The water is freezing cold, and coupled with the cold breeze whipping through the house, it takes Louis' breath away. He gasps, tensing. But the water quickly warms up and soon a steaming hot stream pours down on him. 

He stands in the stream of water, unmoving, and stares at his bare feet as the water washes the blood off of his body and flows down the drain. As he watches the pink water wash away, his mind races as little snippets of memory pop up randomly. 

*"Ready to go, Hazza?" Louis whispered over his shoulder. 

Harry nodded and tapped his bulletproof vest emphatically. He pulled a thumbs-up and smiled. 

"You think we got this?" Louis asked as he loaded his gun and clipped the spare magazine to his belt. 

"Yeah," Harry replied, pulling on a black sweatshirt, "we're gonna surprise 'em. Ain't nobody but us and Donovan knows we're here."

"Yeah, but these ain't no amateurs. They fuckin' killed Zayn and Liam - the best in the business, lad."

"Yeah, but we go in guns blazing and they won't have no time to react. We play through 'em, get the money, and leave like nothin' happened." Harry replied, confident in his statement. 

Louis smiled and nodded. Harry was right; they had the element of surprise on their side, plus, they were armed to the teeth and had a fairly reliable layout of the building. "We're gonna fuckin' do it." Louis said, cocking an eyebrow. 

Harry laughed and pulled the ski mask over his tanned face. A thin white scar ran from his left temple, over his nose, to the corner of his mouth: a reminder of nearly fatal complacency.* 

Louis snaps out of his daze as the water suddenly turns cold. Shutting it off, he climbs out of the shower and wraps the towel around his waist. He steps closer to the sink, above which a mirror hangs, and wipes a hand over the glass to clear the condensation from the shower. His face appears, slightly distorted by the lines of water. He's stubbled and rugged, with unruly hair and large bags under his bright blue eyes. He looks far older than his twenty-four years. 

Groaning, he grips the edges of the sink and drops his head. The muscles in his arms tremble as he places his weight on them. He's tired; he can feel it in the way his body aches. His hair falls over his face in a curtain of knots and he makes a half-hearted attempt to blow it out of his eyes. 

The stark white tiles are cool beneath his feet, and he suddenly realizes how hot he is. Looking back at his reflection in the mirror, he notices his rosy cheeks and his bloodshot eyes. He smirks and shakes his head; it's something he's experienced so many times before: coming down from an adrenaline rush. His heart is beating rapidly; his palms are sweaty; his face is hot; his eyes sting; his body hurts. 

He slowly drags himself into the small bedroom next door and falls onto the bed, facing the ceiling. A cloud of dust swells up around him. The yellowing paint is stained from years of damp. The worn, beige sheets beneath him swallow him and he feels the tension between his shoulders release. He closes his eyes - for a second, he tells himself - and takes a deep breath to ground himself. 

*He and Harry climbed out of the black SUV and ducked, crawling closer to the side of the road where Riley's place was. A large hedge surrounded the property and blocked the view from the outside. Though the hedge looked innocent, Louis knew that behind it was one of the best guarded headquarters in New York: motion-sensor beams, Rottweilers, bodyguards, electric fencing, to name a few. 

Harry crawled up beside Louis and peeked through a gap in the hedge at the large house. The walls were painted white - like most of the houses on the well-maintained street - with green shutters. It looked like a house taken directly out of a soapie on the television. 

"Where's all the guards?" Harry asked, frowning. 

Louis shrugged and furrowed his brows in confusion. "Don't know, lad," he whispered back. It was strange; there were usually two guards patrolling the perimeter of the property. "Maybe they out on a drug run?"

Harry nodded reluctantly, but the confusion was evident on his scarred face. He was so young, but he had experienced so much more than most people twice his age, though no one would ever know of his horrors; the scars on his body were the only physical reminders of his traumas, and he tried to keep those hidden - at least, those that he could. 

"I'm not sure about this, Hazza," Louis whispered. There was a heavy feeling sitting in his gut and he had learnt to trust his gut; ignoring it had proven near fatal more times than he could count. 

Harry shook his head dismissively and frowned. "Lou, if we do this, we're gonna be set for life. We can leave. We can get the fuck out." 

Louis gulped and nodded. Harry hardly ever swore, so when he did, Louis knew to take it seriously. "Okay, let's reiterate the plan, then, lad," Louis sighed, shifting his footing so he could pull the blueprint copy out of his bag. 

"Look at you, using fancy words, eh," Harry teased. 

"Piss off."

He lay it flat on the paved sidewalk, using his fingers to keep the sides from curling. Pointing at a spot on the edge of the house layout depicted in the blueprints, he said, "This is where we at. I'm gonna go in through this door, but you're gonna go in through this door," he pointed at a spot on the wall adjacent to the first, "at the same time as me. They're all going to be congregated in this room at this time, for lunch and whatever other shit try get up to." He pointed at a room in the centre of the house. Running a finger from Harry's entrance to the room, through doors and down corridors, he traced the path Harry would take. "We take 'em by surprise and we fuckin' get the cash and leave."

"This is a big house." Harry commented, his gaze focused on the blueprints. His tone held a barely detectable note of hesitancy and anxiety. 

"Yeah," Louis agreed, turning to face the house. The streets were empty; this, Louis assumed, was due in part to the Christmas holidays, and in part to the late hour. "We got this. Just feels like we're exposed without Zayn and Liam." The only light illuminating the blueprints came from a flickering street lamp. 

"At least Niall's still there to help us out with the preparation," Harry tried, shrugging his broad shoulders. 

Louis smirked and nodded. He wasn't sure what they would do without Niall. Louis could only imagine what would happen with no blueprints, gang intel or private documentation - disaster, most likely. *

Louis wakes with a start, sitting up on the bed. He's not sure of what time it is nor of what day it is; it feels like he's been sleeping for weeks. Though his eyes are heavy and his vision is blurred with the remnants of sleep, he can tell by the light streaking in through the window that it's dawn, but of what day? The day after? The day after the day after? He's slightly short of breath, panicked by the fact that he passed out and stayed out, which was incredibly unlike him. 

His heart thuds dangerously fast and hard in his chest and he springs to his feet. The brown towel around his waist is bone dry - it's been long enough for the towel to dry off completely, then. It slips off of his narrow hips and lands on the floor by his chilly feet. The chill in the winter air snaps at Louis and he's no longer hot from the adrenaline come-down. 

He rips open the cupboard - squinting as dust and cobwebs erupt around him - and tugs out fresh (wrapped in plastic) clothing that he stores there for this exact purpose. He's hardly pulled on the sweater before he's running down the passageway, socks slipping on the wood, jeans crinkling with the movement. 

He glides into the dining room and flips on a light, his heart caught in his throat. He fears that he's going to find Harry's dead body lying on that table; he's worried that he was too sound asleep to hear Harry's calls for help in the night; he's worried he's going to have to carry on without his best friend - go through this alone. But, as the bulbs flicker on and the room is illuminated in warm lighting, his shoulders slump in relief and he smiles broadly in disbelief. Harry is still on the table, unmoving, but he's breathing - in wheezes and gasps, but breaths nonetheless. 

Though, he looks an awful sight: he has an ashen pallor and he's bathed in a cold sweat; his exposed chest is bruised and swollen; the bandages around his midriff are soaked through with blood and sweat. At some point in the night, he had thrashed about wildly, if the way the blanket - which Louis had thrown across him haphazardly - is now in a ball on the ground is of any indication. 

Louis adjusts the sweatshirt he's wearing and walks over to Harry. He rests a hand on Harry's forehead, retracting it in shock at the heat radiating off of Harry's clammy skin. He shakes his head nervously as he thinks about the causes of the fever: infection, blood loss, pain. All three, he assumes. 

A thought suddenly dawns on him: where's the money? He sprints into the dark lounge where he left the bag of money and breathes a sigh of relief as he finds it exactly where he left it. A few loose notes have drifted onto the wooden floor and the brown leather couch. His brow crinkles as he nears the money and kneels down to pick it up; it couldn't have been Donovan who told Riley's men that he and Harry were coming, because Donovan stood to lose too much. It couldn't have been Niall... Right? He wouldn't do that to Harry and Louis... Would he?

Not now. He needs to sort out his shit first. 

He takes a deep breath and mentally lists his next steps: first, he needs to piss and brush his teeth to get the taste of blood and bile out of his mouth. The coppery taste is all he can focus on and he can't help picturing Harry's blood, covering his hands, his hands touching his face and his neck and his mouth...

Next, he needs to eat; he'll be of no use almost collapsing from dehydration and starvation. He glides over to the window and gently pushes the heavy curtain aside, in a wave of dust, and glances at the rapidly rising sun. The dull light that accompanies a winter sunrise suggests he hasn't eaten for almost two days. 

Last - but most importantly - he needs to discard of his and Harry's bloodied clothing, and he needs to wake Harry up so that he can take care of the infection as best he can - get rid of the evidence and get Harry as ready to move as possible, because based on recent circumstance, nowhere is safe.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The safehouse has been found. Harry's barely hanging on. With his world crumbling around him, it's up to Louis to get them out of danger and find out who's after them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys. I'm so sorry for the long wait for the update. This chapter is relatively short and isn't my best work, but its purpose is to set the scene for the upcoming events. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy it. Thank you to everyone who reads and a special thank you to those who give me kudos or comment!
> 
> I just wanna reiterate that anything between the asterisks (*) that is in past tense is a flashback.

Chapter 3

It takes Louis just over twelve hours to change Harry's dressings, burn the clothes and towels, wipe all surfaces from the house to rid it of as many fingerprints as he can, modify the car, and bleach the bathroom. And eat - God, he's starving. All they have in the house is tinned food that won't go off for years, so Louis eats baked beans from the can.

It's dark by the time he's finished, so he settles down on a wooden stool beside Harry and watches the latter's chest rise and fall erratically, bathed in a heavy sweat. If Louis is correct in his estimation, Harry's been asleep for nearly three days - enough time for his wounds to start healing. 

Louis forces his fatigued body to keep moving as he languidly changes Harry's IV bag and dressings again. The wound isn't bleeding anymore, but it's weeping a little. Louis prays the IV fluids will fight off whatever infection it is that's ravaging Harry's body: fever, sweats, shivers. 

Louis fetches another can from the kitchen and opens it once he's seated beside Harry again; it's fruit salad. He forces it down as he rests his crossed feet on the edge of the metal table. Harry fidgets in the depths of unconsciousness, and groans occasionally, but he doesn't respond when Louis calls his name or gently taps him. 

Louis blinks hard to clear his stinging eyes of sleep, and he downs a bottle of water he brought in earlier in a desperate attempt to wake himself up. If anyone comes near the safe-house, he needs to be awake and ready to react. His heavy eyelids droop regardless, and - despite his best efforts - he slowly succumbs to the sleep beckoning him. 

*Harry and Louis crept into the house, their guns held at the ready. As they got nearer, they began communicating silently with simple hand gestures and head nods. 

With a flick of the head and a wriggle of the fingers, Louis indicated for Harry to throw the raw steak laced with enough sedatives to down a horse over the barb-wire fence. Harry had blatantly refused to use anything other than sedatives in fear that it might've harmed the dogs. There was the muffled sound of scurrying feet and growling behind the hedges as Harry crawled a few feet to the left and threw another steak over. They waited five long minutes before they were confident - well, hopeful - that the sedatives had kicked in. 

Harry tapped Louis on the shoulder as he slowly rose to his full height - a few inches over six feet. He kept his back pressed firmly against the thick hedge. Louis pivoted on his feet (remaining in a crouched position behind battered trash cans) and glanced up and down the empty, picturesque street, keeping a lookout for any suspicious activity or approaching enemies. His gun was raised and ready to be fired. 

Harry slowly pushed himself over the hedge, scrambling to reach for the steel fence that stuck out from behind it. He raised himself high enough to cut away the bunched barbed wire that protected the exposed fence and roll it up so as to create a makeshift entrance. He peered over the fence through the gap in the barbed wire and smiled when he saw four large Rottweilers sleeping peacefully. With a soft whistle and a wave, he indicated for Louis to follow him. 

Louis backed up to the fence, vaguely aware of Harry effortlessly hopping over the hedge. Louis slowly rose to his feet and followed suit, trying to remain as inconspicuous as he could. His gaze never left the dimly lit street, though. 

As he landed on the other side of the fence, Louis slowly rolled the barbed wire back into its original place, ensuring the cuts were invisible to the naked eye. He was grateful for their black leather gloves protecting his soft skin from the jagged spikes. Before Louis turned around, he noted that no other house on the street had barbed wire or a fence - most barely had hedges. He and Harry never moved further than a few inches from the hedge. 

As he turned around, Harry bumped him with his shoulder and extended a long arm. He pointed out a motion-sensing beam a few feet away from them on the white wall. A few feet to the left of the first beam, sat another one between two young, small trees. Louis nodded and surveyed the rest of the property. He pointed out another beam to Harry - across the well-kept grass, wedged in the corner of the fencing. 

All of the beams pointed in different directions, which meant getting past them had the potential to be a real bitch. But, thank God for the four muscular Rottweilers, because the beams were all positioned so as not to pick up any movement from the ground and up to three feet above it. It was so that the dogs wouldn't set off the beams. 

Louis turned to whisper the exciting news to Harry, but the latter must have already picked it up because he nodded prematurely and indicated the height they could crouch with his hand. Louis smiled in a mixture of pride and confidence. He pointed to the window in the corner of the house - the entrance he would take - and gestured for Harry to begin his journey to the point through which he would enter the house. Harry nodded, and they separated instantly, both sticking close to the wet grass. 

Louis slowly slid up the smooth wall once he had reached the corner window, and he looked over his shoulder once again to ensure he wasn't being watched. As expected, he heard and saw nothing other than the sound of distant traffic and car alarms. The windows were closed, and the curtains were drawn. But that wasn't where Louis was entering; he needed to get to the balcony above the window. 

He holstered his gun and took a deep breath to ground himself. With a grunt and an almighty leap, he grabbed the edge of the balcony that jutted out only a few inches from the wall. His leather gloves nearly slipped on the smooth, beige tiling of the balcony, but Louis managed to maintain his grip. He groaned and pulled his body up, trying desperately to stay out of view of the corner window below. As he managed to get a knee over the edge of the balcony, he fumbled for the railing and wrapped his small hands around the thin, decorative steel. He glanced through the railing and was pleased to see that the room - a small, square room with a television and modern corner couch - was empty and bathed in darkness, its contents only slightly illuminated by the bright moonlight. He heaved himself onto the balcony and rolled closer to the sliding door to get out of view as soon as possible. 

He effortlessly rose to his knees and pulled his pocket knife out of its permanent spot in his ankle socks. He flicked out the blade and slid it between the door and the doorframe, maneuvering it until he heard the satisfying click of the lock disengaging. He slid the door open quietly, grimacing as it screeched for a second. He halted his movement and listened carefully for any sound emanating from the house, but there was none. It appeared the house was empty, which was fortunate; it was also very unusual. Louis fought to disregard that nagging feeling that something seemed off about the situation. 

The security gate was next: Louis slid the blade back into place and pulled out a small screwdriver from the multi-tool pocket knife. He stuck it into the key space of the black security gate and rattled it skillfully until the gate swung open. Louis smiled, proud of his flawless work thus far. He cautiously entered the house, staying flush against the wall as he pulled out his gun once again and sidled through the dark room. 

Still, the house was quiet. 

As Louis stuck his head out of the small room and glanced up and down the brightly lit passage, he heard the sound of scraping downstairs. He shrugged, figuring it must have been Harry. He side-stepped out of the room and into the passageway. The walls in the passageway were a soft blue, and the floors a polished mahogany. The floors were so well-maintained that they reflected every minute detail of the room. It was only thanks to the floors that Louis saw the person creeping up silently behind him; it was only thanks to the floors that he managed to avoid a well-aimed punch narrowly. The giant fist glanced off of his cheek as Louis stumbled forwards and raised his gun at whoever the fuck it was that was behind him. 

He barely had time to register what he was doing before he felt the familiar feel of the cool barrel of a gun pressed to his temple. 

"Drop it." A harsh voice ordered. 

Louis watched the man who had crept up behind him. He was a tall man with broad shoulders and a blank expression on his face. He was clearly the muscle of the group if his towering build and intimidating stance was of any indication. He smiled at Louis, revealing yellowed teeth - a smoker, then. His skin was close in color to the floors, and it was marred with numerous scars. 

Louis' hands remained wrapped firmly around his gun, aimed at the large man. The voice that belonged to the man holding the gun to Louis' temple repeated, "Drop your gun. Now." As he said it, two more armed men appeared from dark rooms on either side of the spacious passageway. They were both armed, their handguns pointing at Louis. 

Louis hesitated before realizing that he was outnumbered. He lowered his weapon and let it be roughly removed from his possession. He shut his eyes, fucking frustrated, as calloused hands wrestled his hands behind his head and shoved him forward. His eyes snapped open, though, when a loud crack and pained groan drifted up the narrow staircase from downstairs. Louis knew that groan. 

It was Harry's. And it was pained.* 

Louis startles awake with a gasp and a jolt. It takes a long time for his mind and eyes to adjust to his new surroundings. Slowly, he recognizes where he is, shortly followed by the sudden realization that Harry is no longer on the bloodied table in front of him. His IV is gone, along with the clean gauze and disinfectant. 

Louis leaps to his feet, ignoring the spots dancing in his vision. His gun is out and in his hazy line of vision immediately. He moans as he stumbles out of the room and yells, "Harry?" When he receives no response, he grows frantic as he shakes his head violently to clear his thoughts. He runs down the dark passageway as fast as his legs can carry him, calling out Harry's name all the way. 

"Lou," comes the weak response. 

Louis' heart thuds a little slower and softer, somewhat calmed by the knowledge that Harry is still in the house. His fears of having slept through a home invasion slowly ebb away, replaced instead by thoughts of Harry coughing blood in the bathroom, dying mere feet from Louis as he slept peacefully. 

"Hazzah," Louis calls, grimacing at the sound of his own trembling voice. He takes a deep breath and tries again: "Haz, where are you?" 

"Bathroom," Harry calls out in response. As Louis nears the locked bathroom door, Harry adds, "I'm fine."

Louis sighs in relief, holstering his gun in his brown, leather belt. "Harry," Louis argues, biting his tongue. Snarky comments and snide remarks won't get them anywhere. Louis rests a hand against the wooden door, his short, filthy nails scraping the surface thoughtfully as he carefully considers his response. He thinks about telling Harry that he shouldn't be moving around just yet, but Louis is pleased that Harry is capable of it; it means they can pack up and leave within the next few hours. He thinks about asking Harry if he needs help with whatever the hell it is he's doing in there, but - knowing Harry - the offer would be swiftly and firmly declined. So, he goes with: "Harry, how are you feeling?" 

There's a moment's hesitation before Harry admits, "Not good. But I'll be okay."

Louis nods and stifles a laugh of relief. He rakes a filthy hand through his sweaty hair and lets himself rest against the dusty wall for a moment. 

Whilst Harry finishes off in the bathroom, Louis gets to work cleaning the dining room. Once he's fetched a cloth and water from the kitchen, he scrubs the floors viciously, trying to ignore the sight of the soapy water turning pink as it mixes with old blood. He scrubs until his fingers are raw, then he moves onto the table. He wipes the surfaces dry with an old, brown towel. As he works, he throws soiled towels into a plastic bag. Stumbling backwards so his back hits the wall, Louis assesses his work, nodding in satisfaction. Through the window, the first golden rays of rising sun start peeking out from behind thick cloud cover, bathing the room in a red light. 

Running a dirty hand across his forehead, Louis turns to look out of the archway and into the passage. Harry still hasn't emerged from the bathroom. "Harry?" Louis calls, hoping for a response. 

He doesn't get one for a while, and he can only assume that Harry's passed out or fallen or... nope, he can't think of the other possibilities. His growing concern is squashed when Harry finally responds, "I'm good, Lou. I'm just bleachin' the bathroom."

Louis grimaces. Harry shouldn't be doing anything so strenuous in his state, but telling him not to do it would be pointless. Harry must sense Louis' uncertainty because he continues, "I'm fine, Louis. If we goin' back on the run then I can't afford to be a burden. I ain't dyin'." 

Louis smiles in spite of himself and shakes his head in amusement. He pushes his tiring body off of the wall and gathers the plastic bag, dirty rag and bucket in his stiff arms and carries them outside. Dumping them in the fire pit a few feet away from the back door, he takes a moment to gather his thoughts. In the distance, Louis hears the roar of cars and motorbikes. They sound closer than usual. Louis frowns, that nagging feeling that something is wrong returning with a vengeance. This time, he won't ignore it. 

He rushes inside, the soles of his muddied shoes slipping on the wooden flooring as he enters. He's met with the sight of Harry rounding the corner from the kitchen into the living room, bent so far down that he's almost doubled over. His right hand is pressing against the wall so heavily that his knuckles turn white in a hopeless attempt to keep himself stable. His other hand is wrapped firmly around his wounded midsection. He's pale and sweaty, his usually bright green eyes now the hazy color of murky water. 

Their gazes meet for just a second, and Louis screeches to a halt. They don't need to say anything to know that they're both thinking the same thing: something is off. 

"I think they're coming," Louis says breathlessly. 

Harry nods. His midsection is bare, revealing the heavy bruising that mars his chest, and the gauze that is taped over his bullet wound. His broad shoulders are hunched, and his muscular arms are trembling. 

"Where's your shirt?" Louis asks, frowning. His gaze travels over to the scrunched up cloth in Harry's hand. 

Harry shrugs half-heartedly; Louis understands. 

"Where's the bleach?" Louis asks, approaching Harry tentatively. As he rests his hand on Harry's back, Harry leans into Louis's touch so heavily that the latter has to rearrange his grip so as not to fall over. Despite Harry's best efforts, Louis carries most of his injured friend's weight as they near the couch. Louis helps Harry gingerly lower himself onto the couch, trying to ignore the way Harry's face scrunches up in agony and he whimpers - though he tries to suppress it. 

"Harry, the bleach?" Louis repeats, kneeling down in front of Harry. He rests one hand on Harry's knee and grasps the shirt with his other. He has to wrestle it out of Harry's grip; Harry is quickly losing his strength. 

"Kitchen." Harry gasps through gritted teeth. His head is thrown back and his teeth bared in an awful grimace. 

Louis nods. He clasps his hand around Harry's shoulder (his fingertips brushing over the burn scar that covers part of Harry's back) and pushes Harry up so that his back is no longer against the couch. Harry grabs Louis' shirt tightly and groans as the movement jostles his injuries. 

"Sorry, lad." Louis whispers, his voice thick with emotion. 

Harry presses his head into Louis's slight chest as Louis gets to work slipping the shirt over Harry's one arm and around his neck. Harry's breathing is harsh and hot against Louis's chest. Louis gulps, trying not to think about all the other times he's been in this exact position. With a steady hand and a gently tug, Louis gets Harry to release his hold on his shirt. Louis maneuvers Harry's tense arm through the sleeve, fully aware of the tremors reverberating through Harry's broken body. 

When the job is done, both Harry and Louis are exhausted. Harry collapses back into the couch with a strangled moan and barely suppressed tears. Louis falls onto his haunches and allows himself a minute to regain his composure. 

"Okay," Louis announces as he stands abruptly, "Harry, take the cash and put it in the car." 

"No," Harry refuses, opening his eyes to slits. "My clothes are in the kitchen. Burn 'em with the other stuff. I'll spray water around the house to get rid of our fingerprints." The water will leave any nosey investigators or threats with only partial prints at best. 

Louis nods reluctantly, his lips set in a thin line. He watches Harry struggle to the front of the couch, his muscular body trembling with the effort. He turns away, unable to watch anymore, and heads for the kitchen. Once he's grabbed Harry's clothes, lighter fluid and a lighter, he calls out over his shoulder, "I'll meet you in the car." 

He doesn't wait for a response before he walks out of the door. As he pours lighter fluid over the contents of the fire pit, Louis becomes increasingly aware of the sound of approaching vehicles. The cloud cover has become darker and thicker, robbing them of the warmth of sunlight. Louis leans down and uses the small lighter to set one of Harry's clothing items alight. He steps back and watches the fire engulf the remaining contents in flames. Once he's satisfied that any evidence has been destroyed, he pivots and makes a beeline for the house. 

Inside, he grabs the remaining gauze and IV fluids, and the only painkillers they have left - over-the-counter pain relief pills. They will do nothing for Harry's pain other than take the edge off... maybe. But - Louis reasons - better than nothing. He tosses it in a bag along with two cans of baked beans. 

As Louis exits the house and begins locking the gates and doors, he hears the screeching of car tires nearby. With a newfound jolt in his step that matches the now frantic pace of his heart, Louis runs to the barn, finding it open. He clambers into the refurbished car - now red instead of black, with new license plates, and no more blood on the seats. 

Harry's in the passenger seat, his face taut with pain. His hand grips the handle of the door like it's his only lifeline and his other hand rests over his stomach. His breathing is shallow and uneven - the result of a broken chest and a damaged stomach. His shirt is stuck to his damp body, falling perfectly over the bulges of his tense and trembling abdominal muscles. 

Louis puts the car into gear and hurriedly reverses out of the large barn. He chucks the bag with IV fluids and painkillers behind his seat. "We'll stop soon and hook you up, lad," Louis says casually, with a jerk of the chin. He spots the bag of money behind Harry's seat, tucked out of sight. 

"Yeah," Harry groans, though Louis isn't sure he's heard what was said. 

"This is gonna fuckin' suck," Louis sighs, looking at the long dirt road ahead of them. There's only one road out, and it's the same road in. Louis can only hope that wherever the cars are that are approaching them, they haven't reached the dirt road yet. He's been in stickier situations and found his way out; he can do it again this time. 

"Just do it," Harry snaps. He gulps audibly and presses his head into the headrest in anticipation of the upcoming agony. 

Louis sighs loudly and accelerates. He wants to go slowly over the rough dirt road, but he can't afford to. He glances at Harry apologetically, but Harry's attention is focused elsewhere. 

As they hit the road, the car starts jerking and jumping as the tires crunch over rocks and branches and ditches and mounds. Harry does a good job of remaining quiet, but when Louis glances at him, it's obvious that the younger man is in severe discomfort. His grip on the car door has tightened, and his teeth are biting into his bottom lip so hard that he draws blood. 

"I'm sorry," Louis repeats, his voice strained. There's a lump in his throat. 

"Shut up," Harry says harshly, though it's meant to comfort Louis. 

As they make their way down the bumpy road, there's a clap of thunder followed immediately by a sudden downpour of heavy rain. Louis squints as the headlights turn on automatically and he flicks the windscreen wipers on. He leans forward in his seat, barely able to see more than a few feet in front of the car. His heart races as his grip on the leather steering wheel tightens. 

In the distance, Louis spots something. He leans forward further and struggles to make out the irregularity through the rain. Seconds pass before Louis is able to identify the shape: a fleet of cars approaching. Their lights are off; obviously hoping to blend in with the dark sky and downpour. 

"Fuck!" Louis yells and he slams his open palm against the steering wheel. 

Static fills the car from the radio as Louis slams on breaks suddenly. Harry jolts forward, his momentum swiftly halted by his seatbelt. He gasps involuntarily as his body momentarily spasms. When Louis turns to him, he shakes his head dismissively. Louis returns his attention to the road and whips his gun out. Harry does the same, with less fluidity of movement as he fights the urge to vomit. 

Louis puts the car into reverse and starts putting as much distance between him and the approaching fleet as he can. He turns off the headlights and increases the pace of the windscreen wipers as he opens his window and holds his gun at the ready. He uses one hand to maneuver the car, looking over his shoulder at the road behind him. 

Harry keeps his gaze focused ahead of them. Despite his poor state, his instinct and adrenaline give him just enough will power and strength to ignore the pain for a while. 

"How fast?" Louis asks. 

"They comin' fast," Harry responds breathlessly. 

"Time?" 

"Minute. Max." 

Louis narrows his eyes as he searches for the ditch on the side of the road. It's covered by long grass, so it's barely visible in the best of light. It'll provide perfect cover for his car. Louis slams the radio button to silence the static as he spots the slight clearing indicative of the ditch and jerks the car to the left. The car rumbles down the gentle slope into the ditch, the hood of the car facing the road. 

Harry almost drops his gun as the sudden, and severe jolts of the car jostle him. He squeezes his eyes shut as he barely suppresses a groan. 

"You ready?" Louis asks, gulping nervously. Harry's in no state to fight, which means they have one option: run. It's not what Louis wants to do; he wants to kill every single one of their pursuers and find out who sent them. That will get them nowhere right now, however. 

Harry nods. He's pale and sweaty despite the chill in the air. 

"Let 'em get past and when it's safe we'll make a run for it, yeah?" Louis questions. 

Harry hesitates before responding, "Yeah." 

"Don't sound so enthusiastic," Louis teases sarcastically. 

Harry shrugs, but the humor goes straight over his head. Usually, he would say something witty in response. "Would be nice to know who sent them," Harry admits. 

Louis nods, cocking an eyebrow. "I know," he agrees, "but..." He lets his gaze slowly travel over Harry's body. 

Harry turns away, adjusting his position with a grunt. "I know," Harry sighs, nodding slowly so that his sweat-drenched, curly hair bounces against his neck. "Fuck, man, I'm bein' weak!" His grip on his gun tightens as he puts down his window, and adjusts his weight so it's leaning more heavily on his uninjured side. 

"No," Louis states firmly, "you a mess. You can't help it. Now, shut up and aim."

Within seconds, a fleet of at least five Jeeps roar past Louis and Harry, splashing their car with a wave of mud. The rain, mud, and long grass do their jobs, effectively concealing Harryand Louis from view; the cars pass without so much as a decrease in pace.

Louis and Harry make eye contact for a moment as they wait for a few agonizingly long seconds. When they're sure that the cars are far enough away and no others are coming, Harry says, "Go."

Louis nods, puts the car in gear, and speed out of the ditch with a roar and an explosion of mud and grass. As Louis turns left in the opposite direction of the house, he looks over his shoulders at the fleet of cars. They're too far away to see in the terrible weather. Hopefully, that means they can't see Louis and Harry, either. 

Louis thunders down the dirt road as fast as the car can carry them as it's large tires slip and slide in the mud. Louis forces himself to ignore Harry's suddenly erratic breathing and involuntary grunts. "Don't vomit," Louis teases in a desperate attempt to lighten the mood and distract Harry. When he doesn't receive a response, he gulps. He turns to Harry for a moment, biting his bottom lip in concern as he notices Harry's greenish hue and flushed cheeks. 

"Ah," Harry moans, leaning forward as he drops his gun in the footwell and rests his head against the dashboard. His right hand is clenched tightly in a fist that slams against the cubbyhole hard and fast. His left hand grips the window frame. 

"Hazzah?" Louis screams above the roar of his own pounding heart. 

"I'm fine. Drive." Harry dismisses firmly, though his trembling voice betrays him. 

Louis nods. He speeds up and glances in the rear view mirror. He sees nothing behind him for a long time, but he suppresses his relief. Looking forward once again, he focuses his attention on getting them the hell away from there. 

Beside him, Harry pushes himself up to a sitting position, pressing a hand to his bullet wound and maintaining his grip on the window frame. He pulls his hand off of the wound; it comes away bloody. Louis notices and gulps, but doesn't openly react. Harry says nothing, unaware of the fact that Louis has seen the blood. 

Seconds pass, Louis's confidence that he's getting them away from danger growing. His relief is short-lived. 

"Lou," Harry says, urgency evident in his voice. 

Louis glances at the rear view mirror. "Fuckin' hell, mate!" Louis screams in frustration. Two cars emerge from the fog surrounding them and are catching up to Harry and Louis alarmingly fast. "They must've seen us," Louis sighs, taking a deep breath and pushing forward. 

The car revs until it automatically changes to a gear more well suited to the increased pace. 

Louis can focus on nothing other than the task at hand. The sky is suddenly illuminated in white light as lightning and thunder erupt nearby. As quickly as the momentary relief from the darkness comes, it disappears, bathing the route in darkness once more. The rain pounds against the car. 

Louis hardly avoids crashing into a tree as he swerves, gunfire blasting through the air. Bullets whiz past his car and smash into the tree a few inches from Louis's window. Wooden shards fly through the air in a spectacular explosion, mostly missing the car. One particularly sharp one embeds itself in Louis's hand, but he rips it out - adrenaline masking his pain - and tosses it aside carelessly. His grip on his gun never falters. 

He returns fire, managing - somehow - to shatter the windscreen of one of the Jeeps. 

This car's back window is hit not a second later, rupturing into millions of tiny pieces of glass that remain airborne for a second before collapsing onto the muddy road. Louis flinches, but manages to remain on the road. Harry hardly reacts. 

It takes only a couple minutes for Louis to reach the paved road, but it feel like hours. He takes a sharp left onto the road, not bothering to check for oncoming traffic. A car screeches to a halt, hooting loudly. No sooner has Louis straightened out than have the two other cars turned onto the road. 

Louis's heart thuds painfully. He winds between cars and swerves through gaps. Surrounding drivers hoot and scream angrily. The cars pursuing him follow his lead effortlessly, firing their guns carelessly. Stray bullets shatter innocent bystanders' windows and burst their tires. 

Harry bends down beside Louis with a pained grimace. He straightens up a second later with his gun in hand and unbuckles his seatbelt. Louis watches in his peripheral vision. Harry uses the bar above the doorframe to pull himself into a kneeling position and he leans outside of the window. Cold rain washes away salty sweat. He's trembling with such force that as he aims his gun, Louis can hear it shaking. With a steadying breath, Harry fires, hitting the wheel of the one of the Jeeps pursuing them. There's a pop and a bang. The Jeep swerves, crashing into the car beside it, and screeches to a halt. 

"Yes, Harry!" Louis yells triumphantly. He smiles broadly. 

Harry collapses back into the car, dropping his gun once he's put the safety back on. He wraps both arms around his damaged torso and rocks back and forth in agony. "I can't," Harry gasps, "ah, fuck me." He reaches out with his right hand and presses it into the dashboard so hard that his knuckles turn white. He folds over himself and struggles to even out his uneven breathing. 

"You did good," Louis asserts, "you took one of 'em out."

Harry doesn't respond. He's consumed by his pain. Louis turns his attention to losing the remaining Jeep. He hops onto the highway, running the red light at the onramp intersection. He's going well over the speed limit, narrowly avoiding crashes. 

Despite his best efforts, the Jeep remains on Louis' tail. In the passenger seat, Harry is barely hanging onto consciousness.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being hunted down is hard enough without a passenger fighting off infection beside you. 
> 
> Louis has to deal with the wrath of an unknown enemy and ensure that Harry lives through the ordeal. Even in the depths of agony, Harry ensures they remain one step ahead of their enemies. 
> 
> The question remains: who betrayed them, and why?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone is enjoying the story. My chapters are a little shorter than usual because there's so much happening in such a short space of time that cramming it into fewer chapters would seem chaotic and would be unenjoyable to read. 
> 
> Thank you for your support if you gave me kudos. Thank you for the comments (I appreciate your support so much!) and thank you for reading. Enjoy.

Chapter 4

Louis grits his teeth angrily and speeds up. The car revs loudly as It whizzes down the highway at unfathomable speeds. Louis finds himself grateful that they're in a relatively desolate area in the countryside, and he only passes a car every few hundred feet. 

The Jeep has not been joined by its companion Jeeps yet. He has no doubt that they will appear sooner or later, though, when they discover that the safe house is a dead end. 

"Who the fuck are they?" Louis spits, seething. 

Harry doesn't respond. Louis is going too fast to risk a glance at Harry, so he can only hope that the latter has succeeded in maintaining his grasp on consciousness; they cannot afford for Harry to lose it. 

The Jeep catches up to Louis eventually - almost half an hour after the chase began. It pulls up alongside Louis and rams into the side of the red BMW. Louis and Harry jerk to the side with the force of the hit as the car swerves out of its lane and almost sideswipes another car. Harry hisses, reaching out to grab onto whatever he can to support himself. 

Watching his rear view mirror to ensure that there are no cars behind him, Louis slams on the breaks and the car skids to a stop as the Jeep continues forward. But, the driver of the Jeep reacts quickly and it turns sharply and starts heading for Louis and Harry. 

"Fuck!" Louis yells, accelerating and taking a sharp right around the Jeep at the last minute, narrowly avoiding a collision. He races for the nearest offramp and barely catches it as his car skids dangerously on the watery roads. 

The rain is still bucketing down, making it almost impossible to see more than ten feet in front of the car. Louis curses quietly as he runs a red light, sighing in relief when they make it through the intersection unscathed. The Jeep comes out untouched, too. 

Harry fumbles clumsily for his gun in the footwell. With a pained yell and agonized flinch, he pushes the back of the passenger seat down so that it's almost parallel to the floor of the car. With the last of his waning strength, he forces himself to roll onto his stomach as he outstretches his arm and takes aim through the shattered back window of their car at the Jeep behind them. 

"Slow down," Harry instructs Louis, his voice strained and barely above a whisper. 

Louis does as told, tensing when the unsuspecting Jeep comes dangerously close. As the Jeep slams on breaks - soon enough to prevent any real damage, but too late to stop a collision - Harry fires his gun, just before the BMW jerks with the force of the impact. Louis's head jerks forward so hard that he is unable to suppress his pained shriek. Harry cries out in agony, his body tensing, but keeps his gun trained on its mark. It's unnecessary though, as the first bullet hit bullseye. The windscreen cracks as the bullet tears through the glass of the Jeep, and blood splatters the window as the Jeep comes to an abrupt halt and starts tumbling down the road until it crashes into a nearby grass bank. 

The street is otherwise empty: a result of being too far out in the middle of nowhere and of the ungodly weather. Louis screeches to a halt and stares at the crumpled mess of a car on the side of the road. Rain drenches him as it beats in through the window. He slowly drops his hand from the steering wheel, stuck in time for only a moment. 

He's snapped from his stupor by Harry, who clambers unceremoniously out of the car and collapses to his knees on the drenched ground. Louis watches, in shock. Willing his legs to keep moving and his hand to tighten its grip around the gun despite the shooting pain radiating from his neck, Louis tumbles out of the car. Using the car for support, he rounds the hood and rushes to Harry's side. Adrenaline pumps through his veins, masking his pain and fatigue. 

Harry is on all fours, vomiting violently. Louis goes to comfort Harry, but Harry waves him off sternly. "Go to the wreck," Harry instructs, just as he dry heaves - the contents of his stomach long expelled. 

Louis nods, wincing as the movement tugs on his injured neck. He ignores the discomfort as he crouches and jumps out from behind the car, his gun steadily trained on the wrecked Jeep. He nears it warily, his movements deliberately slow. 

There's no movement in or around the Jeep as Louis moves towards it cautiously. Water cascades down Louis's face, obscuring his vision, but he perseveres. His heart races as he gets close enough to the Jeep to look inside. Its paint is scratched beyond repair and most of the windows are shattered. Inside, the driver is slumped over the wheel, half of his head now a mess of bone and brain matter - nothing Louis hasn't seen before. The passenger is also slumped over. It's impossible to see his face through his curly blonde hair, stuffed haphazardly under a black beanie. Louis narrows his eyes in suspicion as he grips the beanie and rips it off of the man's head roughly. 

His hand is barely out of reach before the passenger seemingly comes back to life, turning so quickly that Louis barely has time to react. The passenger fires his gun, missing Louis by a fraction of a hair. Louis dives out of the way, grunting as he skids across the road, firing his own gun twice before crawling frantically to find shelter behind a roadside tree. 

"Shit," Louis gasps, sitting up so his back is pressed firmly against the large trunk of the tree. Its green leaves provide cover, but also obscure his vision. 

He lays flat on the ground and peeks out from behind the trunk, pushing leaves away with the palm of his injured hand. He winces. 

The passenger stumbles out of the car; it's someone he doesn't recognize. He's tall, slightly overweight. There's blood gushing from a gash in his forehead. His hands are both wrapped around his gun and it's pointed at the tree behind which Louis is hiding. 

"Louis," the man says in a voice that sounds too squeaky for his own body, "give us the money, and tell Harry to come out." 

Louis's eyes widen; how the hell does the asshole know who he is? And why the hell doesn't he know who the asshole is? 

"Fuck you!" Louis yells, trying in vain to get a clear shot of the man through the slowing rain and thick vegetation. His heart is racing and he's hot despite the chilly wind whistling through the leaves. 

"Give me the money. I'll make your death quick." 

"If I don't give you the money?" Louis challenges, cocking his gun. Lightning flashes through the cloudy sky and illuminates the man's face. It's round and young; he looks no older than Harry. "You make it slow?" 

The man laughs mockingly. Louis rolls his eyes. "Maybe," the man announces proudly. 

Louis takes a deep breath and blocks out the sounds around him that overwhelm his senses. He rolls his aching neck and presses the trigger. The bullet misses its mark by an inch, hitting the man in the arm instead of the shoulder. A moment later, sound explodes in the air just as leaves rain down around Louis. 

The man still stumbles back with the force of the hit and he releases his gun as he tumbles to the road, weakened by his already-existing injuries. Louis scrambles to his feet and bursts through the thick foliage, barely keeping his footing. His gun remains trained on the fallen man as Louis rushes forward. 

The man is writhing on the floor gripping his bleeding arm in a stubby hand. Louis kicks the man's gun away and stands over him. When the man appears to be getting up (he shimmies until he's almost in a semi-upright position), Louis lands a solid kick to his head. The man is dazed, and Louis takes advantage of this; he places his foot on the man's injured arm and pushes down with all of his strength. The man screams and his face turns bright red as the veins in his thick neck bulge. He weakly pushes Louis foot, though it's futile. 

"Who the fuck sent you?" Louis asks, his gun steady in his uninjured hand. 

"Fuck you." The man spits, hurling a wad of phlegm at Louis. 

It misses Louis, but the attempt is enough to anger him. He slams his foot down on the man's arm again and repeats, "Who sent you?" 

The man laughs maniacally. "Fuck. You." He says, maintaining eye contact with Louis even through the curtain of blood dripping over his eyes. 

Louis kneels down with his one knee on the man's injured arm and his other knee on the man's crotch. He grips the man by the chin and presses the gun into his forehead so hard that it leaves a dent. "Last chance," Louis warns. 

The rain has slowed to a gentle drizzle, but the cloud cover remains thick and dark. 

"If you don't kill me, he will," the man says with an evil smile on his face, though there's a hint of fear in his voice, "so just fucking do it." 

"Who's he?" Louis shouts, saliva spraying from his mouth. His heart is racing, and his head is pounding. "Is it Donovan?" 

The man frowns for a moment, but it slowly turns into a laugh. Louis shakes him angrily, confused. "You mean you don't know?" The man says mockingly. 

Louis frowns, letting his guard down for only a second before he presses the gun into the man's forehead tighter and pushes his knees down harder. "Know what?" He seethes through gritted teeth. 

The man howls in pain. "Donovan is dead," he manages to whisper breathlessly. He gasps, his body convulsing in agony. 

"He..." Louis trails off and tumbles off of the man. For a moment, he is lost in a world of confusion and shock and frustration. There are so many questions he wants to ask. His eyes are wide, but not taking in anything in front of him - unable to process anything. "What?" 

The man takes advantage of Louis's seeming distraction, and attempts to lunge for his gun in the grass nearby, but Louis points his gun lazily and shoots. It hits its mark; the man collapses in a puddle of his own blood as it seeps out of a bullet hole in the middle of his chest. He lands mere inches from Louis's legs - splayed out on the tarred road in front of him. 

Louis snaps out of it, shaking his head to clear his thoughts for the time being. He staggers to his feet, suddenly all too aware of the pain in his neck and the agony in his hand. He glances at the deep gash, deciding it can wait for a while. With one last kick to the man's limp body, Louis stumbles away from the crime scene, confident that the rain has washed away any evidence that incriminates him; his gun is unlicensed which means it can't be traced back to him. 

He holsters his gun, glancing up and down the road. Once he's satisfied that there are no cars following him, he makes the short journey to the car. Rounding it, he finds Harry sitting with his back against the car, his legs in front of him with his knees bent off the ground. Both of his hands are pressing hard into his wounded stomach and his head is thrown back against the car. His entire body is tense as he jerks uncontrollably. The ground around him is covered in the remnants of vomit that hasn't yet been washed away by the rain. 

Louis hesitates before slipping down the car and wrapping his arms around his knees. He sighs as he lets his head drop back against the door. "Donovan is dead," Louis whispers, turning his head to the side and watching Harry. 

Harry gulps, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. Breathlessly, he asks, "What?" 

"Donovan's dead." Louis repeats emotionlessly. He's not sure how he feels about that yet. 

Harry's eyes slip open and he turns to Louis. His face is haggard: pale, flushed cheeks, bloodshot eyes. "He... what?" 

Louis shrugs casually. His heart has slowed and his muscles are starting to seize. He's stiff and his neck hurts and his hand is bleeding. "They killed him, I think," Louis explains calmly. 

"Who's they?" Harry asks. He's wheezing instead of breathing and he's breathless when he speaks. 

"I don't know," Louis admits. He's frustrated. He lets his legs splay out in front of him once again and he twiddles his fingers. 

"Shit," Harry sighs, turning to face the empty road in front of him. He lifts his hand from his stomach and holds it out in front of him, trembling viciously. Blood covers its entirety. 

"Stitches out?" Louis asks, staring at the blood. He's starting to shiver as his drenched clothes cling to his tired body. 

"Maybe," Harry gulps. He drops his hand back to his stomach and swallows thickly. 

Louis nods. "Ribs?" He asks, his gaze traveling to Harry's chest. 

Harry doesn't answer at first, contemplating his answer. "Not good." He admits. Louis turns away and shuts his stinging eyes. "Your hand." Harry whispers, pointing with his sharp chin. 

Louis glances at his hand then shuts his eyes again. His hand stings, but it's bearable for the time being. "I'll bandage it up in the car." Louis shifts his position and repeats, "Donovan's dead." He still can't fathom the fact that their boss is dead - the man who tugged them from poverty; the man who used them as slaves to do his dirty work. 

"Makes it easier to get out," Harry mumbles. Louis smirks, unsurprised by Harry's logical response. 

"Yeah," Louis nods noncommittally, "but, I mean - fuck. He's dead. He wasn't a terrible bloke." 

"Wasn't a great one either," Harry counters, his hand instinctively moving to his chest, resting over the bullet wound just below his collarbone. Louis grimaces, remembering the failed murder attempt. 

"You know," Louis mutters, "I almost forgot about that. Not so much forgot - just, uh... suppressed. Fuckin' scary shit, that."

Harry snorts and rolls his eyes emphatically. "So, we don't know who 'they' is?" He asks, changing the topic abruptly. As always, he blatantly refuses to discuss any of his scarring memories. 

"No," Louis admits, gently running a finger over the gash in his hand. He winces at the slight contact and drops his hands. "They're after us and we don't even know who they are. And how the hell did they know where the safe house was?" They sit in silence for a long time, both considering the obvious answer, but neither willing to admit it to each other nor to themselves. It's Louis who interrupts the pregnant silence: "It can't be Niall." 

Harry shakes his head, "He wouldn't." He says it with a sense of finality. 

Louis nods, "I don't think so, either, lad. But we gotta consider it." 

"He's the only one who knows," Harry eventually says begrudgingly. He shifts his position, gasping in pain. 

"The only one who knows that's still alive," Louis agrees reluctantly. 

Harry chokes on a gasp, coughs wracking his whole body. He rolls onto his side and curls in on himself, pressing his hand into the tar to steady himself. His hand wraps around his chest and he grasps for air as his face turns red and the muscles in his neck start to bulge. Louis reluctantly places a hand on Harry's back, climbing to his knees. He waits patiently - helplessly - until Harry's convulsing lessens to shivers and eventually ceases. 

When Harry's caught his breath, Louis says, "We need to get you somewhere safe. Can you wait for a little bit until I find us somewhere dry?" 

Harry nods, "I'm fine."

Louis snorts sarcastically and gets to his feet slowly, every movement punctuated by a pang of pain from his neck. He leans down and starts to help Harry, but the latter knocks his hand away stubbornly. Without saying a word, Louis nods in acknowledgement, rounds the car and climbs into his seat. Harry stands slowly, and frantically fumbles for the nearest thing once he's on his unstable feet. It's a sight almost too painful to watch as Harry climbs into the passenger seat, his face taut with agony and his right hand holding his stomach as though it's the only thing keeping him whole. His movements are halting and tense. 

Louis turns away and starts the car. With one last glance at the limp body and wreckage of the Jeep, Louis speeds off. The only sound in the car is that of Harry's shallow breaths occasionally followed by a strained wheeze. 

"How bad does the wound look?" Louis asks, keeping his eyes on the empty road ahead of him. It's long and straight, lined by thick forestry on either side. 

Harry gingerly lifts his sopping grey shirt and pulls up the corner of the bloodied gauze. Louis watches in his peripheral vision, noticing how easily the tape holding down the gauze slips off of Harry's sweat-drenched skin. 

"I, uh..." Harry begins, grunting. He lifts the gauze more and gently touches the wound. At the light contact, he gasps and throws his head back. "It's infected." His raspy voice is barely audible. 

"Shit," Louis whispers. 

"What reason would Niall have for betraying us?" Harry asks, changing the topic. He grips the sides of the seat once he's replaced the gauze and shirt. 

"I can't figure it out," Louis admits, shaking his head. He takes a deep breath and wriggles his thumb where the gash is. 

"I'm tellin' you he wouldn't do it. He makes more money than anyone else in the company, so it ain't about that." The blonde man had mentioned the money continuously, apparently unwilling to let it go, which makes it seem like this is all about the money - perhaps amongst other things. 

Louis nods and considers the situation. He turns right at the next four-way stop and heads towards the nearest town only thirty miles away. The terrain turns hilly and the road becomes windy as it twists and turns through thick vegetation. 

"He has the most say," Louis adds, "I mean, Donovan had the final say but everyone knew that comin' in. He was the fuckin' boss. You don't think Niall wanted to... he never did like Donovan." Louis allows himself to consider the possibility that Niall wanted to be boss, to do as he wished. 

Harry takes a moment, breathing heavily through gritted teeth. It seems he can read Louis's thoughts. "Nah," Harry shakes his head - though it's more like an uncoordinated jerk, "Niall would never want to be boss, mate."

Louis purses his lips in thought and cocks his eyebrow. "Yeah, he hates talking to large crowds. He didn't even feel comfortable talking to us for the first few years. Remember?" 

Harry nods. "He also wanted to get out," he adds, "he never enjoyed the life we live." 

Louis shakes his head fervently. "No," Louis disagrees, dismissing the possibility that Niall is behind the killings and attempted murders in order to get out of the world of crime, "he would have nothing to gain by betraying us and killing Donovan." If anything, the murders and high-speed chases would only drag him further into the world of crime. 

"Yeah, we were gonna help him out. Killing us would be counterproductive." Harry agrees. 

"We swallowed fuckin' dictionaries today, lad!" Louis teases jovially. 

Harry smiles and rolls his eyes in jest. He adjusts the position of the reclined chair so that it's back to a semi-upright position. He puts down the window, letting in whipping winds of freezing cold air. 

"Hazzah," Louis cautions, looking at Harry out of the corner of his eyes, "that wind is fuckin' freezin'!"

Harry gasps, "I can't breathe, Lou." He offers no elaboration and turns away, abruptly ending the conversation.

Louis nibbles his bottom lip. Keeping one hand on the wheel, he reaches behind him with his other hand and scrounges around in the bag containing gauze and IV fluids. His hand wraps around a small, cardboard box and he tugs it out and holds it in front of Harry. Harry looks at it and frowns as he takes it in his shaking hands. 

"Its painkillers. They weak but they'll do for now," Louis explains, never taking his eyes off of the road. 

"I'll still be lucid?" Harry asks, staring at the red box in his hand as though he's not quite sure what to do with it. 

"Yeah," Louis says, "take the edge off is all."

Harry nods slowly. He pops two out of the foil and swallows them, grimacing. 

"I'm gonna find us a bed and breakfast or some shit in this town. We stay the night. Get a good rest." 

Harry says nothing in response but Louis can see the way his body relaxes in relief at the prospect of getting out of the car. 

They drive in silence through the winding roads for a few minutes, until Harry suddenly sits up and says, "Lou, stop the car."

Louis's brows knit together and he stutters, "What?" 

"I'm gonna vomit. Stop the car." 

Louis swerves off to the side of the road, finding a gap in the thick forestry. Harry tumbles out of the car immediately and starts retching loudly. Louis falls out of the car, hand on the gun in his belt, and drops to his knees beside Harry's shivering form. As Harry's vomit - consisting mostly of bile - soaks into the grass and soil, Louis spots blood. It's almost impossible to see, but it's there - a thin stream of pink amongst the dull yellow liquid. 

Louis gulps, clasping his hand around Harry's strong shoulder. Harry subconsciously leans into Louis's touch. Louis knows that they need help soon, and from a professional. He can't take Harry to a hospital; a bullet wound invited far too many questions. He can't take Harry to the company doctor; Louis isn't sure who to trust, or if the doctor is even still alive, if the company still exists. He needs to think of something soon, or Harry will be completely and utterly fucked.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis finds a warm place for Harry to rest for now. He also finds himself uncharacteristically infatuated with the local pharmacist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this will be the last chapter of nonsense. I think that by the next chapter I would like things to get moving a little faster. I just needed to introduce the female character and also find a way for Harry to recuperate enough to keep going. 
> 
> Unlike most action shows, I don't want my character to be able to overcome an abdominal gunshot wound as though it's insignificant. Harry has been a little weak these last few chapters, but thats about to change. 
> 
> I would like to say a HUGE thank you to those of you who commented. It means so much to me. Thank you to those who gave me kudos!! Please enjoy this next chapter.

Chapter 5

Louis finds the quietest, most affordable motel in the small town that lies low in the valley between towering mountains. The motel on the edge of the town is tiny, and it's basic, but it's warm and it's clean. 

He helps a fast-fading Harry climb out of the car and loops his injured friend's long arms over his slight shoulders. The short walk to the motel room takes far longer than it should; Harry's barely capable of carrying his own weight and the painkillers have done nothing to lessen his pain. Louis curses himself over and over for not having stronger pills; there was never any need before, though. 

He gets Harry settled on the bed and pulls off his drenched grey shirt in a lengthy process that exhausts both of them and results in Harry very nearly passing out. This is all new for Louis. Usually, the company doctor looked after Harry's many potentially fatal wounds, kept him in the hospital (could it be called a hospital if it was in the basement of the doctor's holiday home?) and, by the time Harry got back to Louis a few days later, he was in pain but on the mend. He would have real painkillers and proper bandaging and professional suturing. Now, all he has is soiled gauze and a spreading infection. 

Harry - weak as he is - stubbornly refuses Louis's multiple offers of help as he gingerly gets himself comfortable on the bed. They engage in idle conversation as they both instinctively check their guns and reload the chambers. Every sound alerts them, but they're both good at hiding their concern. 

"I'll be up and walking in forty-eight," Harry comments, not looking up from his gun. He wipes away the sweat beading on his forehead with a large hand. 

"What? Days?" Louis teases, watching Harry for a moment. Despite his injuries, he's holding himself together pretty damn well. 

Harry smiles that lopsided smile that he's had ever since he was a kid. The thin, white scar on his tanned face contorts with the movement. "Hours, you wanker," Harry sighs in jest. 

Louis laughs, enjoying the moment. Harry adjusts his position on the small single bed closest to the bathroom, unable to silence his pained grunt. Louis purses his lips and is immediately reminded of their predicament as he watches Harry cautiously check the bleeding wound in his stomach. 

"You think Donovan is really dead?" Louis asks, placing his gun back in its place by his belt. He carelessly tosses the cloth aside. 

"Hope so," Harry mumbles. 

Louis nods, using his pocket knife that he keeps as a keyring on his car keys to open the cans of baked beans. 

"Yeah," Louis agrees halfheartedly as he hands Harry a can and passes him a plastic spoon supplied by the motel for tea. 

They guzzle the beans down within seconds, and Harry very nearly vomits it all out again. Louis checks Harry's temperature before chucking the cans in the dustbin. "Man," he exclaims, "you're burning up." 

"Mm," Harry hums, positioning himself so that he's facing the window and door in case of intruders. "Did you bring the toothbrushes?" 

Louis shakes his head and explains, "Nah, burnt 'em. Was in a bit of a rush." 

Harry lifts his eyebrows in agreement. "Somethin' is off about this, mate," he says emphatically. He waves his hand in the air as he speaks. 

"I know, lad," Louis acknowledges, "I can't shake this fuckin' feelin'." 

"I need to brush my teeth," Harry says, moving to stand up, "got this rank taste in my mouth."

Louis hops up and rushes forward, pushing Harry back gently. Despite Harry's immense strength and intimidating size, he's unable to fight Louis's soft touch, and that frightens the latter. Louis shakes his head as Harry tries again. 

"Piss off," Harry whines, but Louis isn't sure whether he's cursing Louis or himself. Harry collapses back against the wall and sags. He's helpless for the first time in a long time. 

"I'll get, lad," Louis says firmly. With a tap on the shoulder and a weak attempt at a smile, he leaves. 

Louis locks the door to the room and slips the keys in his pocket. Before he crosses the road to the simple pharmacy, he takes a good look at the BMW that he parked haphazardly. The new red paint is scratched on both sides of the car, and the back of the car is badly dented and misshapen. Louis sighs, making a mental note to get another car soon. 

In the poky pharmacy, Louis grabs a green basket from the entrance and starts walking up and down every single isle. He grabs gauze, bandages, bandaids, cotton wool, disinfectant, latex gloves and hand sanitizer. When he approaches the counter for the pain medication and whatever other pills he can get his hand on, he suddenly feels out of his depth. 

The store is empty aside from him, so the pharmacist attends to him immediately. 

"How may I help you?" She asks, smiling broadly. She has bright red hair and porcelain skin. She's pretty, Louis thinks. 

"I, uh..." he trails off. What does he ask for? "My friend has been hurt and I want painkillers for him. Strong ones."

"Okay, what's wrong with your friend?" The friendly pharmacist asks as she taps her chin thoughtfully with long fingers. Her nails are painted a bright pink. She turns and approaches a shelf on the wall lined with multiple pills and medications Louis is unfamiliar with. 

"Broken ribs," Louis shrugs, purposefully emitting the bullet wound. He lets his elbow rest against the counter, and he suddenly realizes that he's still wearing wet clothing. He takes a step back and smells his shirt; it's black so you can't see the blood, but you could probably smell it. 

"Ow," the pharmacist winces sympathetically. "Okay, well your typical over-the-counter medication probably won't do much to help. You'll need a prescription for the proper stuff."

"I don't have a prescription." Louis states impatiently. His gaze travels over the shelf of boxes. 

"Oh, not good. Not good at all." She says it emphatically, her voice high pitched. Louis sighs. She's annoying. "Is your friend on any other medication?" 

Louis shakes his head. 

"Blood thinners?" 

Louis frowns and says, "No." He pauses for a moment before adding, "He's been on a lot of medication before and ain't ever had any reaction. To pain pills, I mean." 

The pharmacist frowns, cocking a thin eyebrow. Louis averts his gaze, scratching the back of his head awkwardly. "Okay," the pharmacist mutters softly, "so no allergies?"

Louis considers the question, recalling every suppressed memory he has of all the times that Harry has been injured. "Don't think so."

There's a considerable pause as the pharmacist taps her fingers on the counter, lost in thought. "Hmm..." the pharmacist hums, "hang on a second for me, will you?" 

Louis nods, his gaze darting between her and the medication in uncertainty. He places the basket of supplies on the white counter and rests his hand on his gun, ready to pull it out if needed. He gulps, his heart thudding against his chest painfully hard. His mouth is dry. He glances over his shoulder whenever he hears anything. Part of him wants to run, paranoid that someone is watching him, coming for him - or Harry, while he's is vulnerable. A larger part of him knows that he needs to stay where he is in order to get Harry whatever he needs. 

The pharmacist returns a few minutes later, entering the room that's dimly lit with fluorescent globes. She smiles awkwardly at Louis and says, "I've called my supervisor. She'll be out in a moment." She has a pretentious way about her that gets under Louis's skin. 

Louis's brow furrows, but he lifts his one shoulder in acknowledgement. The pharmacist hangs around for a minute before clearing her throat and taking a seat at an ancient box computer on the far left side of the counter. The awkward tension in the room is almost palpable. 

The supervisor appears a couple minutes later. She's tall - far taller than Louis - and slim. She has dark hair in tight curls that's almost an Afro but not quite. She has dark brown eyes that are dotted with specks almost green, and barely visible freckles over her nose. She's not wearing makeup. 

Louis is momentarily frozen, her beauty breathtaking. Her thick lips part in a thin smile - exposing perfectly straight teeth. 

"Hello, sir," she says softly, her voice raspy and soothing, "Lynette said you need some assistance?" 

Louis stumbles over his words before eventually deciding on, "Yeah, I do." And, just like that, the momentary bewilderment has passed and Louis has returned his focus to Harry. 

"What's up?" She has a hint of an accent that's barely detectable. 

"My friend has broken ribs. We don't have a prescription. I need - " Louis begins, but he's interrupted by the pretty pharmacist. 

"You need painkillers, yeah?" She completes his sentence for him. She rolls up her sleeves and steps back from the counter, scanning the shelves of medication behind it. 

Louis catches a glimpse of her Converse high tops - probably used to be black but have faded to a dark brown, now. They're scruffy, and out of place paired with her white lab coat. He smiles; she has a charm about her that he likes.

She returns a moment later with a small rectangular box of Tylenol. She scribbles a label on the box in untidy writing and explains, "It's Tylenol. It's the safest bet but it's not the strongest. This will dull the pain a little, and is safe for anyone on anti-coagulants or who is sensitive to, uh... aspirin." She taps the box with her finger, indicating the dosage (the note she scribbled down). Her fingers are long and thin, her nails not painted but still neat. 

"Thanks," Louis mumbles, chucking it in the basket to his left. He goes to pick up the basket, but hesitates before placing it back down and leaning in. The pharmacist frowns, and for a moment, Louis is worried she's going to say something that will draw Lynette's attention away from the computer. Louis does not trust the stuffy red-head. But, the supervising pharmacist says nothing and ends up leaning in, too. The smell of cigarettes hangs in her breath as it fans over Louis's face and neck. He kinda likes it; he could do with a cigarette. 

"If my friend had an infection, what could I give him without a prescription?" He whispers, trusting the pharmacist for some reason. 

The pharmacist narrows her large eyes and smirks. Louis's gaze darts to her amused smile, uncertain of what to think about it. 

"Infected wound?" She asks, cocking a thick eyebrow. 

Louis flinches, taken off guard. "Uh, yeah," he stutters, "how'd you know?" 

"You're covered in blood; the smell is shit, by the way," she points a finger at Louis's blue jeans lazily. Louis grimaces as he looks at the blood stains along his thighs. He's not entirely convinced, though; the dried blood looks like mud, and would easily be mistaken for such. Sensing Louis's uncertainty, she continues, "And I was having a smoke outside when I saw you two arrive at that motel over there." She jerks her chin in the direction of the hotel, and Louis glances over his shoulder through the wall-to-wall windows at the motel a few hundred feet away. "Your friend looks fucked." 

Louis gulps nervously, silently chastising himself for being so careless as to let them be seen so blatantly. "Who else saw?" He asks, his gaze darting to Lynette. Lynette is still focused on the computer screen. 

The pharmacist shrugs and stands up, keeping her thin hand pressed against the table. "Have you seen the fucking weather, bruh? No one else was outside." She says nonchalantly, smiling. 

"Just you?" Louis reiterates. His heart is racing once again and his palms are sweating. 

"Yeah, and I haven't told anyone if that's what you're gonna ask." 

Louis narrows his eyes, his hand going back to his gun. He loosely wraps his fingers around it. He says nothing, giving her the opportunity to explain herself. 

"What wound does he have?" She asks, moving to her left and ducking under the counter. She pops up again beside Louis and rises to her full height. She looks down on him, and smiles knowingly. She's got broad shoulders and an athlete's build. Beneath her lab coat she's wearing tight ripped jeans and a loose shirt that has the words 'you can't take the sky from me' written across it. 

Louis lets his gaze scan her, searching for a weapon... or something as small as a twitch in her fingers that suggests she's going to pounce. She's relaxed, her arms crossed and her weight on her right hip. He still says nothing, fighting the urge to tell her until he knows she won't cause trouble. 

"What injury does your friend have, man?" She repeats, tossing him a box of low-grade antibiotics. He catches it in his left hand, but keeps his right hand on his gun. 

Tossing the antibiotics in the basket, he finally replies, "GSW, upper abdomen."

She nods slowly, but remains otherwise expressionless. Louis is impressed. For a young woman from a small - read: tiny - village, she's handling herself well. It's unusual. She gestures for Louis to follow her with a flick of the head and she leads him to the rightmost isle. 

"What do you have so far?" She asks, holdings her chin between her thin fingers. 

"Gauze, bandages, disinfectant... hand sanitizer," he lists. He glances over his shoulder at his basket and winces, gripping his neck in an attempt to ease the pain. 

The pharmacist looks at him for a second before focusing her attention back on the issue at hand. "Latex gloves?" She asks, raising her eyebrows. 

Louis nods. He's reluctant to give her information, but she seems to know what she's doing and that puts him slightly at ease. 

"Is it infected?" She asks, taking a few steps down the isle. 

Louis hesitates. "I think so."

"How long ago was he shot?" She asks, turning to face Louis. Her voice is barely above a whisper. 

"Just over three days ago," Louis responds. He clears his throat and he feels his cheeks grow hot. 

"Fuck!" She exclaims, drawing attention from Lynette. 

Louis looks at Lynette and smiles, shrugging. Lynette's eyes bore into him as though he's disrupted a very important meeting. "Your friend dropped her phone," Louis offers as an explanation. 

"Yeah, you know me," the pharmacist plays along. 

Lynette rolls her eyes visibly and returns her focus to the computer screen in front of her. The pharmacist waits until she's well and truly preoccupied once again before she faces Louis. 

"Keep it fuckin' down, will ya!" Louis snaps. 

She nods and purses her lips apologetically. Louis looks at the motel through the windows over her shoulder, and notices that it's raining again. 

"He got shot three days ago and he's still standing?" She whispers, her eyes wide. 

"Yeah," Louis says, letting the corners of his lips turn up into a semblance of a smile. "And he's got broken ribs. He's a tough bloke." 

"Clearly," she agrees, swallowing back an impressed exclamation. 

"Don't tell no one," Louis whispers, narrowing his eyes threateningly. 

"Fuck off," she dismisses, with a wave of the hand. 

Louis grabs her hand and squeezes it just enough to hurt but not enough to injure. Her body tenses, but her face remains expressionless. Louis is slightly thrown off by her casual reaction, but decides not to comment on it. "Stop actin' like I gotta trust you. I don't know you. I don't trust you," he spits. 

"Fair enough," she agrees, ripping her hand from his grip with surprising strength. There's something in her nonchalant acceptance of the situation that suggests she's familiar with it. 

"Great." Louis lets his hand drop.

"Are you keeping the wound dry?" 

Louis shakes his head and admits, "I managed to for the first few days while he was out, but since he woke up he's been sweatin'. And movin' a lot more than he should. Been in the rain."

"So the wrapping is wet?"

Louis nods. 

She searches the racks for a second before grabbing a packet of waterproof, self-adhesive gauze pads. She waits until he's made eye contact and she's sure he's listening before she explains, "Use these instead. Make him shower, not bath. If he can stand by himself."

Louis snorts and shakes his head. "He would make himself stand even if it should be physically impossible," he tells her, rather proud of how strong-willed Harry is. 

She hums in a mixture of shock and approval and continues, "Good. You don't want the wound soaking in water; it can make it reopen. That's assuming his wound is sutured in the first place?" 

Louis nibbles his bottom lip and fiddles nervously with the packet of gauze in his hand. "Some of the stitches came out, he said." He admits coyly. 

"Okay," she scratches the back of her head and stares at a point just past Louis. Louis watches her, the way her almost green eyes sparkle in the dull lighting. "I can come over and do the sutures professionally, if you would like." 

Louis shakes his head emphatically. She flinches, but doesn't appear to be shocked by his response, and Louis is quick to elaborate, "It's probably best if you stay away." 

She narrows her eyes at him but doesn't push the topic. "Fine," she concedes, "but do you have the shit you need to do the sutures?" 

He nods. She mirrors his actions subconsciously. 

"Shower him, clean the wound with the disinfectant - use latex gloves - and do the sutures," she begins, walking further down the isle. "Give him painkillers beforehand." 

"Yeah," Louis shrugs, hearing nothing new. 

"Put the gauze over the wound and start him on the course of antibiotics immediately," she says. She runs a hand over her face and sighs. "He shouldn't have been moving around so much." 

Louis takes a deep breath to avoid snapping at her. He gets closer so that he can feel her breath on him and she his. "He didn't have a choice." He says, firmly. 

She nods, widens her eyes, and says, "Probably the same reason why you can't go to a doctor." She says it confidently, as though she understands. It's surprising, therefore unsettling. 

Louis curls his hands into fists and seethes, "That's none of your fuckin' business." 

He turns and storms toward the counter. Along the way, he grasps two toothbrushes and toothpaste. He approaches the till, gripping the basket and all but chucking it at Lynette. She barely stops it before it hits her in the face. Unlike her supervisor, she appears startled by Louis. She starts scanning the items hurriedly, almost frightened. 

It takes her only a few seconds and Louis pays in cash, demanding she keep the change, and storms off with the bag in his hand. He's met with the pharmacist at the door. 

She grabs his wrist roughly and tugs him closer to her. She glances up and down the street as though she, too, is paranoid, "Listen, clearly you know what you're doing. If you didn't, your friend would be dead. But I'm guessing you're not a professional; your friend needs a professional." 

"Why the fuck do you care?" Louis mutters, ripping his arm from her hold. 

"I've been in a similar situation before," she whispers, and they're both suddenly aware hat Lynette is watching. "Lynette, fuck off!" The pharmacist yells. 

Lynette squeals and scurries into the back room. 

Turning toward each other once more, she carries on, "Put ice on his gunshot wound to help with inflammation. For his chest, alternate cold and heat. Be careful when he moves; too much pressure on a broken rib can cause it to move and puncture his lung." 

Louis sets his face in a steely glare and spits, "I know this all already." 

"If you need me, you know where to find me."

"I won't need you. We've managed ourselves so far. But thanks." 

"All I'm saying is: you can only run so far," the pharmacist says softly, "I know. Trust me."

"Mm," Louis hums. He pushes open the door - a glass door with stickers taped on it promoting specials. "Where's the nearest payphone?" 

She sighs and stuffs her hands in her pockets as cold wind blows in through the ajar door. "Down the road," she informs him. As Louis exits the shop, she calls after him, "Bandage your hand and apply heat to your neck. You probably just have a pulled muscle."

Louis doesn't turn to face her. He rubs the back of his neck subconsciously, whimpering involuntarily as he presses down on a particularly painful spot. He crosses the road, looking up and down despite there not being any cars in the grim weather. He pulls the keys from his pocket and takes a deep breath before unlocking the door, shoving it open and rushing inside. He shuts it, shielding himself from the cold. He's freezing; his damp clothes cling to his shivering body. He rips off his jersey and tosses it aside, not bothering to change his shirt as he adjusts the temperature on the air-conditioner control panel. 

Harry's on the bed, leaning heavily on his one elbow as he points his gun at the door. He lets it fall from his trembling hand when he sees it's Louis. He's taken off his gauze pad, exposing the inflamed, weeping wound in his stomach and the black bruising across his chest. The bruises are so dark that the tattoos dotting his upper body can hardly be seen. 

"Lou," he gasps in relief as he drops his head to the pillow. 

"You okay?" Louis asks, chucking the bag of supplies on the other bed. 

The room is small. There's a single bed on either side of the room, each with a wooden side table and lamp. There's an old television by the wall facing the beds, with a chair and a table beside it. On the table is a kettle and two cups with assorted instant teas, coffees, and sugars. The bathroom door is just beside the bed on the far side of the room. The bathroom itself is small, dark and old-fashioned, but it does the job. 

Harry nods, running a hand through his wet hair. 

"You need to shower," Louis says, kneeling down beside Harry and inspecting the wound. It's definitely infected. There's heat radiating from the area immediately surrounding the wound. 

"Tryna tell me I stink, Lou?" Harry teases, his bloodshot green eyes crinkling in the corners. 

"You do," Louis slaps his arm playfully, just soft enough not to jar his injuries, "but also because your wound needs to be cleaned."

Harry nods, instinctively wrapping a protective arm around his strong chest. He pushes himself to a sitting position, refusing Louis's repeated offers of help. His face goes red with strain as he swings his legs over the bed one by one. He grips the wooden headboard against the wall so tightly that his knuckles turn white. He heaves himself to his feet, barely suppressing a groan. As he walks to the bathroom, he has to hold onto something - anything - to keep himself upright (or, in a semi-upright, hunched position). 

"Do you need help?" Louis asks, but he doesn't move from his bed because he knows what the answer will be. 

"No," Harry calls, his raspy voice barely recognizable. 

Louis sits on the bed, pulling up the woolen blanket at the foot and wrapping it around his shoulders in a desperate attempt to warm himself up. The sound of running water starts to emanate from the bathroom. Louis fetches the bag of IV fluids and gauze from the car and the bag from the pharmacy across the road and empties the contents onto the bed, ignoring the smears of blood on the white duvets. 

He hears a grunt and heavy breathing in the bathroom. Louis wishes he could shower, but he doesn't have time. He needs to sort shit out first. 

"I need to brush my teeth," Harry says just loud enough to be heard over the sound of the shower. 

Louis digs for the toothbrushes and toothpaste amongst the supplies. He pulls them out and heads for the bathroom. As he enters, he catches a glimpse of Harry in the shower in the corner of the small room. Harry's back is facing Louis, his defined muscles bulging with strain. His strong legs are trembling in an attempt to hold up his blood-deprived body. The hot water that rushes over Harry quickly turns pink as it washes away blood. 

Louis focuses his attention on unwrapping the toothbrushes. As he unwraps them and squeezes toothpaste onto the blue one, he realizes that he grabbed children's ones. His toothbrush is small and is dotted with dinosaurs in multiple colors and shapes. 

"I got kid toothbrushes," Louis shouts as a mouthful of toothpaste foam splatters the mirror. 

"Perfect for your maturity," Harry responds, but neither of them turn to face each other. 

"Fuck you." Louis laughs. He wraps up in the bathroom and rushes into the bedroom again, his tired body collapsing onto the bed. 

Louis rips open all of the packets and douses a cotton wool pad in disinfectant. He starts cleaning the gash in his thumb clumsily, wiping away congealed blood and dirt particles. He winces and gasps, taking a much needed rest as he waits for the stinging to stop. Using a new cotton wool pad, he repeats the process, and again and again until he's satisfied the wound is clean. Soaking one more pad in disinfectant, he places it on top of the wound, tears involuntarily welling in his eyes as a natural reaction to the stinging. He takes a large, square fabric plaster and sticks it over the cotton wool, smoothing it out so that it sits perfectly on his hand. 

He sighs in relief and forces his fatigued body to get up again; he has to keep moving or he will never get up. His muscles are aching already. He chucks the bloodied remnants in the dustbin by the door. His stomach growls and he groans in frustration; he's starving.

When the water stops, Louis reluctantly mentions, "Donovan called me the day you got shot, Haz." 

Harry emerges from the bathroom a few minutes later in nothing but his boxers. There's a smudge of toothpaste on his cheek and he licks it away. As he steps into the bright yellow light of the room, Louis chokes on a gasp. Harry looks really bad: broken body, haggard face, ashen pallor. 

"What did he say?" Harry asks, making his way to his bed painfully slowly. He lowers himself gingerly, tightening his wrap around his chest. This time he can't suppress the whimper. 

"I ignored the call," Louis says, "I didn't know if we could trust him. I didn't know what he wanted." 

Harry nods. "I would've done the same," he says calmly. 

Louis's eyebrows knit together and he stumbles over his words for a moment before adding, "Now I wish I had taken it."

"He could've been tryna tell us something," Harry says bluntly. 

Louis shrugs sheepishly. "Maybe who was after us." 

There's a moment of uncertain silence as they both consider the possibilities. Harry interrupts it with a casual 'eh'. "Stop doubtin' yourself, mate," Harry instructs firmly, "it's over now."

"Yeah, I know, lad, but it just ain't makin' sense to me right now," Louis argues. 

Harry doesn't say anything for a long time. 

Louis is lost in his thoughts, looking out of the small window at the street outside. His gaze lands on the pharmacy and he sees the pretty pharmacist sitting on the entrance step outside, smoking a cigarette. He watches her as she taps her foot rhythmically to music he can't hear. 

Louis is distracted by Harry saying, "Lou, let's get this shit done."

Louis's head snaps to the side and he focuses on Harry, who's sitting semi-upright on the bed, his shoulders resting against the headboard. Louis takes a deep breath and fetches the supplies. He drops it on the bed beside Harry. 

"Here," Louis says, handing Harry the Tylenol, "Take two." Harry dry-swallows them without question. Louis hangs the IV fluid bag on the post of the headboard and slips latex gloves on just before he attaches the line to a fresh needle. Harry casually holds out a muscular arm, clenching and unclenching his fist to make the veins expand closer to the surface, thus making them easier to see. Louis slaps the crevice of Harry's arm and pours disinfectant on the cotton wool and wipes the area fervently. Taking a shaky breath, he focuses. He slips the needle in effortlessly, relieved when it goes in without hassle. He reaches for the medical tape and tears a bit off with his teeth. Securing the needle, he ensures the IV fluid is running before he steps back and tosses all of the empty packets in the dustbin. He picks the dustbin up and drops it on the floor beside the bed. 

He works silently as he boils the kettle, pouring the hot water in a mug. He wipes the suture needle with the antiseptic then drops it in the boiling water to ensure that it's clean. Clicking his short fingers in an attempt to release the ache setting in, he dabs Harry's wound with a disinfectant soaked cotton wool pad. It's no longer bleeding, but there's a gross puss seeping out and becoming crusty. He wipes it all away. 

"Deep breath," he instructs Harry. 

Harry presses a hand to his chest to stabilize his ribs and says, "Ditto."

Louis chuckles, but doesn't tear his gaze away from Harry's wound. "Wait," he announces, standing quickly and rushing over to the barely working bar fridge. He opens it, finding nothing other than frozen water bottles and cans of cool-drink that are frosting over. He holds up a water bottle and says, "Thank God for old fridges." 

He's overcautious, wiping the bottle with disinfectant and holding it against the wound. He holds it over the wound for thirty seconds; Harry has to bite his arm to stop himself from screaming. Then, Louis holds it on the area surrounding the wound until the water starts melting. He discards it, hoping its numbed the area somewhat. Hurriedly repeating the disinfecting process, he wastes no time in jabbing the needle into Harry's skin. 

Harry cries out and presses harder against his chest as his broken bones grind against each other. Louis fetches a pillow from his bed and hands it to Harry. Harry presses it to his face to muffle any sounds he makes. 

Louis slowly finishes off suturing the wound, trying to do it to the best of his abilities. He ties it off neatly and carefully places a waterproof gauze pad over it. He drops to the floor, scrambles back, and sags against his bed. 

"Try not to rip the stitches out, mate," Louis teases in an attempt to lighten the mood, "the thing was a fuckin' mess, man." He says it in jest, but it's true; the wound was a mess of torn flesh and crusty puss. Harry drops the pillow from his face, revealing tear tracks down his temples and into his hair. There's a thin sheen of sweat on his upper lip. Louis pretends not to notice the tears. 

Louis rips off the gloves and hurriedly tidies the room. He places all medical supplies in a bag and throws the bag on his bed. As he hands Harry a blanket, Harry asks, "Did your hand need stitches?" 

"Nah," Louis says dismissively, lifting his hand high so he can get a better look at his handiwork. The bandaid has remained firmly in place. 

"You sure?" Harry questions, throwing the blanket over himself haphazardly. 

Louis nods and hands Harry the antibiotic pill. "Take this. It'll help with the infection." He instructs. He hands Harry the defrosted bottle of water. Throwing on his wet jersey once again, Louis grabs a couple hundred dollars from the bag of money that they brought in during their long trek from the car and stuffs it in his pocket. He pulls his jersey down so that it conceals his gun. 

"I'm gonna get us food and dry clothes. And I'm gonna call Niall," Louis mumbles as he approaches the door. 

"What?" Harry says. He pushes himself to his elbows, suddenly looking lightheaded. Louis figures it's the mixture of painkillers and antibiotics on an empty stomach. "What are you gonna say?" His words are beginning to slur. 

"I don't know," Louis responds after careful contemplation, "I'll see. I need to find out the truth, Haz. It's killin' me, man."

Harry nods clumsily and rests his head on the pillow. His eyelids are drooping. Louis is pleased; sleep will help Harry heal faster so that they can leave as soon as possible. "Call tomorrow," Harry slurs just as Louis is about to close the door. 

"What?" Louis asks, popping his head back inside. 

"Call tomorrow. That way," Harry begins, but he's interrupted by a pained cough followed by a barely suppressed moan, "that way if - only if - it is Niall, then if he tracks us here... traces the call, we can be long gone by the time he finds us."

Louis raises his eyebrows and nods slowly. "You right." He confirms. 

Louis ambles down the street casually, his hands in his pockets - but never more than a swift movement away from his gun. In the corner of his eye, he's aware of a lanky figure he now recognizes as the supervising pharmacist. He risks a glance in her direction. She's watching him intently, her one hand held up in the air as she slowly exhales smoke from a newly lit cigarette. Louis stops walking, letting his gaze travel over her long body, draped casually over the concrete stairs in the front of the pharmacy. Sighing, Louis shrugs his tired shoulders and approaches her. 

Fuck, he needs a cigarette.


End file.
